


Not So Secret Saint Nick

by KittyKenway



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, F/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyKenway/pseuds/KittyKenway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas 1193. The castle is gearing up for the festive season and the Sheriff has a dastardly plan up his sleeve: Secret Saint Nick, predecessor to the modern Secret Santa. As Marian, Guy and Allan struggle to find a present meaningful enough for their chosen recipient, they can feel only relief that the Sheriff disqualified himself.<br/>Set roughly between 2 x 11 and 2 x 12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Secret Saint Nick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eugeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugeal/gifts).



> Written as part of 2015 RH Secret Santa Gift Exchange for @ilariaeugealtomasini! Merry Christmas. Hope you enjoy it!

Guy and Allan were taking a break from their hectic schedule to sit in the Great Hall and make conversation over cups of warmed ale. Or rather Allan was the one making conversation, chatting away about the upcoming festivities. Guy, who had never been much of one for Christmas, even as a child, only gave the odd grunt in reply, rather staring moodily down into his cup and wishing the entire holiday was over with. If there was ever a time of the year when the Sheriff was at his most insufferable it was Christmas. His latest request that morning had been for his two henchmen to find a partridge and a pear tree. Guy could only hope that his request for the next day would not be two turtle doves.  
His day however brightened with the arrival of Marian, dressed in a suitably festive red gown. Guy had wondered how she was feeling about the holidays. He remembered just how excited she had seemed the previous year for Christmas, encouraging even the grouchy Sheriff to hang up a few baubles around the place. Yet it seemed this year the Sheriff and her had swapped personalities; while the Sheriff was eager and excited, Marian rather seemed quiet and withdrawn. It had to be expected though: it would be her first Christmas without her father.  
“Have you heard what the Sheriff has planned now?” she said, joining them on the bench. Guy was pleased to note that it was he she sat next to and it was he who she leaned over to grab the ale jug.  
“No,” Allan said.  
“Yes,” Guy said.  
Allan snorted, “Favourite.”  
“He wants to host a gift exchange. The entire castle! Guards, servants, us,” she said. “He’s calling it Secret Saint Nick or something. We all have to pick a name out of a hat and then we give this person a gift.”  
“That doesn’t sound too bad. Could be worse, I guess,” Allan replied.  
“It just doesn’t seem like something the Sheriff would want to do,” Marian said, careful with her words even among these two, despite the fact she considered both as her friends albeit friends with complications. “It seems almost… fair.”  
Allan shrugged, returning back to his ale.  
“He didn’t even give out any gifts last year,” Marian continued. It was well known that the Sheriff had instead spent the traditional Christmas bonus on a new gold tooth and a bust of himself. Both objects had been flaunted openly about until the Sheriff had drunkenly knocked his bust off of its stand and then later lost his gold tooth in a particularly tough bit of roast venison.  
“S’good idea. Saves money,” Allan said. “Reckon though I can rig it? There’s this girl, Beth, who works in the kitchens. I know that she’ll love a set of Allan tokens.”  
Guy and Marian both raised their eyebrows simultaneously: “Allan tokens?”  
Allan sighed. Wasn’t it obvious?  
“They’re these cards I had made up a while back. Here.” He fished through his pockets, pulling out a set of well-worn cards, blank but for a little scrawled bit of writing on each. “I give these to people and they can cash it in for favours.”  
Marian took the cards and flicked through them, struggling to make out the handwriting. She deciphered one, only to almost choke.  
“Did you make these?” she said. “I mean; did you write them yourself?”  
Allan shook his head.  
“No, I got a friend-“ He didn’t dare say it was Robin in front of Guy. “-to write it out for me.”  
“And they’re supposed to be this… colourful?”  
Concerned, Allan took the cards back, thumbing through them.  
“It’s just tokens for hugs and stuff. A kiss on the cheek; a clip of my hair; a drink for two at the tavern.”  
“I think you may need to have a word with your friend…”  
Allan groaned: “That explains the slaps then. And there was me thinking they thought Allan tokens were a cheap gift.”  
“That too.” Allan groaned again.  
It was then that the Sheriff appeared, walking briskly into the Hall with his fur hat held aloft.  
“Gisborne. Allan. Marian,” he said, before sticking the hat under each of their noses. “Take a name, buy something for whoever you pick. Make it pricey and fun and maybe with a receipt. Just in case.”  
Marian unravelled her small scrap of parchment, groaning quietly when she saw the Sheriff’s name scribbled on it. She noticed Guy stiffening beside her, having just unravelled his own piece. Checking that the Sheriff was a safe distance away (he was, pestering the guards on duty to pull names out of his hat), she peeked over Guy’s shoulder. The Sheriff, again. She looked over to where Allan was groaning and discarding his own scrap of parchment. Once more, the Sheriff.  
“He’s fixed this,” she said, slamming down the scrap onto the table.  
“What do you mean?” Guy said, stuffing his own away.  
“Look!” Both men looked over, realising then that she was right.  
“That’s a good one,” Allan said, shaking his head. “Wish I’d thought of that.”  
“There must have been a mistake,” she said, raising her voice. The other two tried to shush her. “Sheriff?”  
The Sheriff looked up with a sneer, “Yes, Marian?”  
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said again, knowing all too well that anything that benefitted the Sheriff so obviously could not have been a mistake on his part. “We all seem to have you.”  
A murmur rose up then in the Hall, the inhabitants realising that they too all had picked the Sheriff’s name. The Sheriff stood, like a rat trapped, amidst all the angry comments.  
“Fine,” he snapped, snatching the scraps back and plonking the fur hat back onto his head. “Fine. But remember, I can hang the lot of you if I wanted to.” That certainly quietened any discontent. “Secret Saint Nicholas is cancelled. I expect whatever gifts you have for me to be presented tomorrow.” He stalked out of the Hall then, muttering under his breath all the while. “With receipts!” he shouted, as an after-thought.  
The Hall soon went back to its normal low level of chatter as if nothing unordinary had happened. Marian, initially pleased at having discovered the Sheriff’s plan, was only realising then just what a difficult position she had put herself in. Angering the Sheriff was never a good idea and she had put her neck out by calling him out before everyone. She would have to find a decent enough gift to sate the Sheriff with if she didn’t want to spend the next year in her father’s recently vacated prison cell.  
Guy, noticing her sudden downcast look, quietly nudged the ale jug in her direction. He was lost how to cheer her up, stuck between his willingness to keep the Sheriff happy and his wish to make her happy.  
“You know,” Allan piped up, “for one of the Sheriff’s ideas, it wasn’t a bad one.”  
“Conning everyone into buying him a present?” Marian said.  
“That too, but the whole picking names out of hats. You know we should do that.” He coughed quietly. “The three of us, I mean. I don’t have nearly enough money to buy something for the Sheriff.”  
“The three of us?” Guy was not so keen on the idea, that was until he saw the impact of the idea on Marian. She was no longer staring down into the ale jug, but was staring instead at Allan, the gears and clogs in her head already starting up. She seemed to approve.  
“We could do it,” she said. “We’d just have to be careful not to pick ourselves. Should we suggest a limit on how much to spend? Just to make it fair.” Still under some form of house arrest herself and with the prospect of having to buy the Sheriff something suitably pricey, it was hardly as if she had much more to spend after that.  
The other two concurred, albeit Guy reluctantly, and so Marian took the three previous scraps of parchment and, after a quick diversion to grab ink and a quill from the scribe’s office, set about jotting each of their names down.  
“Right,” she said, hands cupped and the three folded-up scraps resting on her palms. “If you get your name, put it back.” She could only hope the other two men were more honest than the Sheriff.  
Guy went first, careful to keep the identity of his person secret. He unravelled it to find the name of just the person he had hoped to pick, but his initial joy turned quickly to dismay. How could he convey his feelings to Marian in just one small present?  
Allan rooted around the last two scraps in Marian’s hands. He too was thrilled to find he had picked just the person he had wanted: himself.  
This left Marian with only Guy left. She had been hoping for Allan, knowing he was the easier of the two to buy for. Whatever she got Guy, it had to be something meaningful. Something that he would like and would use and would want. Something that she just could not bring herself to think of at that moment. 

The three parted ways then, agreeing to give their presents to each other at dinner the following day. Marian and Guy both knew they needed much more time, but it was only the day before Christmas Eve and they could hardly hold a present exchange much later than that. What they both needed was an idea, something they could obtain (and quickly!) for the other one. Allan, smug, went away, knowing full well that he had the easiest person to buy for.  
Marian went first out of the castle and to the markets in the town. She was fortunate that the markets were open that day, serving the numerous last-minute Christmas shoppers. As she pondered over two different riding satchels (“Real leather, my lady, hand crafted. A worthy gift!”), she felt something tap her shoulder. Or, should she say, someone.  
“Robin,” she whispered, as the hooded figure pulled her aside.  
“Needing a new bag?” he said, as a way of greeting. She sighed.  
“For Guy actually.” She explained the whole situation to him, telling him about the Sheriff’s attempt at rigging the name selection and her dilemma. She was affronted when all Robin could do in response was to burst out laughing.  
“So you’re buying him more leather?” he asked, having finally composed himself. His lip trembled still, more laughter caught at the back of this throat. “Does he need any more?”  
“I can’t think of what to get him!” Marian said, stressed only further by Robin’s reaction. “What should I do?!”  
“You’re over-thinking this…”  
“You’re a man!” (“Have you only just realised…?”) “What would you want for a present?”  
Robin smirked, waggled his eyebrows. That earned him an annoyed elbow in the ribs.  
“Joking, joking,” he wheezed. “Whatever you get Guy, he’ll be happy with it.”  
“You sure?”  
“How could he not? It is you after all who’s giving it to him.” Guy’s infatuation with Marian was well known and well attested to, which only made the situation more difficult. Her gift had to be meaningful, but then again not too meaningful. This would have been so much easier had she picked Allan’s name.  
“What are you all doing for Christmas?” she asked, moving Robin to another stall. Wooden figurines. Would Guy like a wooden figurine?  
“Much is cooking up half the forest for Christmas dinner and John’s brewed up something strong. Should be a quiet one,” Robin said, with a grin. He was always such a big kid when it came to Christmas. “You know there’s always a space for you, if you want it, at the camp. For Christmas and for after…”  
Marian smiled. It was not as if she wasn’t tempted. At times when the castle became just too much, she would fantasize about giving it all up and sneaking out to the forest. With her father gone, it was not as if she had much to keep her at the castle, yet something kept her from accepting, kept her back at the castle and kept her fantasies as nothing more than daydreams.  
“And miss out on the Sheriff’s annual archery shoot-out at the local carollers? I think I’ll have to pass.”  
“Good. More roast squirrel for the rest of us,” Robin said, blasé as ever at yet another refusal. He did however stop her before she left back for the castle, pressing a small wooden figurine into her hands, a carved bird: “Merry Christmas”.  
As she walked back through the gate, the taste of Robin still on her lips, she thought of the new quiver she had had made for him, hidden still at the craftsman’s workshop. Robin at least was easy to buy for.

 

Guy was having no more luck. Later that day he found Allan in the markets, wondering around and looking panicked himself.  
“I need your help,” Guy said, pulling the other man to one side.  
“So do I,” came Allan’s retort. That surprised Guy. By right the only person left for Allan to have picked out was Guy. He couldn’t be that hard to buy for.  
“I need to find something for Marian.”  
“And you’re coming to me because…?”  
“What do you think she’d like?”  
“Honoured and all that you value my opinion so…“ Guy failed to admit that he had already turned to the Sheriff for advice and had been laughed out of his chambers. “But wouldn’t you be better asking her?”  
Guy growled, “I thought the whole point of this damned game was that we kept it secret!”  
“You just told me you have Marian!”  
This was not helping and Guy had already used up enough time and energy going around and asking for opinions. Allan was his last port of call and the man was hardly giving him any ideas.  
“What do you think she’d like?” he said, through gritted teeth. “Flowers? A new dress? Jewellery?”  
Allan pulled a face at all three suggestions, particularly the last one. It was well known that the last piece of jewellery Guy had given Marian had ended up straight back in his face.  
“Maybe not jewellery…”  
“What should I get her?!”  
“I don’t know. Haven’t we got a price cap or something?”  
“I thought that was optional.”  
“Maybe for you, Lord of Locksley and all that. You forget that I’m on pittance and Marian’s on even less…”  
“Don’t think I’m giving you a raise after all this-“  
“Even after all the solid advice I give you?”  
“What solid advice?!”  
They continued this back and forth all the way along the market, catching some unwanted attention from the locals. It was not good for the castle’s reputation if its two main henchmen were bickering away like a pair of housewives at the market. They needed to get a grip on themselves.  
“Look, Guy, get her something practical. Something she’d use,” Allan said, with a sigh. “She’s hardly someone who wants something just because its pretty.”  
“Something practical… Like another horse?”  
“Do you even understand how money works?”  
“You’re not helping!”  
“Just do something for her. Don’t buy her something. Do something for her that’ll help her out,” Allan said. “I don’t know. Groom her horse for her. Bring her flowers. Write her a poem. And, if not, have a new cloak or something ready just in case.”

   
  
Over dinner, Guy sat and brooded, struggling to think up the right words for a poem. He pondered as he chewed: what could he compare her rich-brown hair to? Her eyes? The Sheriff’s clerk had some suggestions before when Guy had rounded on him after the market and tried to get him to put his ideas into words that made sense. The clerk however proved unimaginative and Guy could not imagine Marian enjoying a poem that compared her to a difficult property case. Guy left him with instructions to think up some more ideas, but he did not expect much from the clerk.  
He watched her from afar as she ate. Could he have the clerk mention how she ate? All refined and lady-like, yet still willing to give her scraps to the castle’s many dogs. Or would she be offended by that? Christ, this was proving to be harder than he had ever expected. Why hadn’t he got Allan? He could have just given the man some of his old clothes again. It was hardly as if he was in much position to complain.  
Guy had been avoiding Marian as much as he could, just so as to keep his efforts secret still, but he had bumped into her in the corridor that afternoon. He remembered flushing, struggling to make small talk with her; all the while trying to conceal the fact that he had been in her bedchamber, having sneaked in in hope for some clue of sorts of what she might want. He had found nothing other than a few trinkets of hers, some ribbons left aside by her bed. She did not seem one to like clutter.  
It was then that the main meal was cleared away and desserts were brought out. Guy waved away one dish; he had never been a fan much of sweet things and instead turned to his goblet of wine. Could he compare Marian to an apple pastry? It did seem to be her favourite sweet after all. He watched her look up as the servants brought out plates of the treat, only to leave them in front of the Sheriff and the Sheriff alone. He noted the instant flash of disappointment across her face, just before her features slipped back to their usual reserved dignity.  
Apple pastries! That was it. He would have the cook make her up some tomorrow, wrap them up all nicely and that, and he would present them to her personally. She would be touched by the simple effort and the cook could hardly say no to Guy. The matter was settled then.  
Marian too waved away the sweets offered, disappointed by the Sheriff’s hogging of her favourite sweets. She didn’t even think the Sheriff liked apples; knowing him, it was only a ruse to annoy her for calling out on his con earlier. It was a surprisingly tame method of revenge for the Sheriff and so she guessed she had little to complain about.  
She had struggled all afternoon to think of a present for Guy. Allan had proved equally useless. For some reason, he was stressed out over his gift, even though by the process of elimination he could only have picked her name out of her hands. Marian did not think of herself a hard person to buy for, but Allan had still snapped at her, gave her nothing helpful to work with and left her to go look around the markets himself.  
So instead she had taken to watching Guy from a distance. As the light began to fail, she watched from a window above as he practiced sparring in the castle courtyard. He did not need much, she thought, watching him swing his sword, parrying off the guards, at least in way of more training. She was however witness to when one guard managed to get a successful hit on him, cutting into Guy’s sword hand.  
Guy had shouted aloud at that, clutching his hand. Despite the blunted nature of the practice swords, it proved to be a cutting blow and, as Marian watched, she spotted the glimmer of blood when Guy moved his hand.  
Marian did not know how Guy felt about his gloves, but she had never known him to wear another pair. They were old, made from faded lambskin, and had been mended a good few many times. No wonder they had split on him then. Marian did not have the money to buy him a new pair, but she figured that he could do with having them mended. It had been a while since she had last stitched anything, no longer having her old Night Watchman gear to mend, but she felt up to the task, hoping Guy would appreciate this simple token.  
It had not been too difficult to locate the gloves, left with some of his training gear on a messy pile on his bedchamber floor. She had promised not to snoop on his things, but once she was in his bedchamber, she could not resist having a little look around. Other than for the pile of clothes on the floor and the unmade bed, Guy’s chamber was unusually tidy, tidier even than hers. He did not have much in the way of personal trinkets, but he had a banner with the Gisborne colours, yellow and black, hanging up over his bed. She wondered if she could make something for him in those colours, before chiding herself for being too ambitious.  
She had been successful at sneaking in and out of his bedchamber, but had almost given herself away when she bumped into him in the corridor afterwards. She had kept the gloves concealed behind her back, but had struggled with small talk and had found an excuse to hurry off as soon as she could. He too had seemed unsettled, unusually willing to let her go on her way. That was strange. He couldn’t have her as a Secret Saint Nick after all, unless Allan was proving to be a difficult person to buy for. How could Allan be difficult? The man would be happy with a bag of coin and a bottle of something potent.  
What she wasn’t proving successful at was mending the damned glove. It had been some time since she had needed to mend anything and her needles were proving blunt and she did not have the money (or time) to buy more. She had done as much as she could before dinner, deciding to finish it off before bed. Yet as dinner drew to a close and people began to move away, including a hasty Guy, she realised she could not put it off no more. Back to the sewing.

  

The following morning, with only hours to spare before the gift exchange, Guy was locking heads with the head cook, a man he had thought would be pliable enough.  
“What do you mean make apple tarts?” the man roared. “Don’t you know I have a Christmas feast to prepare? We don’t even have that many apples left either. It’s been a bad autumn, but you all upstairs seem to think we can just produce the stuff out of our ar-…”  
“Do it,” Guy growled.  
“Or what? You’ll run me through? For God’s sake, just do it. I’d rather that than making another Christmas feast. You know the Sheriff wants me to stitch a boar to a peacock and then fill the whole thing up with venison?!” The head cook laughed, a hysterical laugh. “I don’t think that’s even possible, but he’ll have my head if I don’t procure it…”  
“Can’t you get one of your undercooks to do it?” Guy said, realising then that his threats would have no success here.  
“And keep them away from working on the feast?! I need all the hands I can get. Not making sweet treats for your sweetheart.”  
“They’re not for my- How do you- Never mind,” Guy sighed. “Can’t you just make someone whip up something quick for me. I’m running out of time.”  
“You’re running out of time? Heavens, I don’t know how that feels. It’s not as if I’ve ever had to work to a deadline. Christ forbid…”  
“You’ve made your point. Now, will you make me the apple tarts or not? I can be generous…” If threats were not going to work, maybe a bribe would work.  
“What good’s money to me if I pull out a half-arsed Christmas dinner, hey? When the Sheriff comes after me with a crossbow or whatever because I forgot to glaze his meat monster with the right honey?” The head cook shook his head. “Come back and bother me when Christmas is over. We’ll talk apple tarts then.”  
Guy could not believe the man’s audacity. How dare he so bluntly refuse him? He had such a good idea and now he was stranded with only hours to spare and with no better idea on hand.  
“Look, what can I do to get some apple tarts made in time for dinner?” he said, grabbing onto the head cook’s arm to stop him from moving off. The other man sighed.  
“There’s a bag of apples and some flour in the pantry. Maybe some eggs in the back. If you want it done, you can do it your bloody self.”

 

Marian was just about satisfied with her needlework. It had been a long night with much cursing and bloody fingertips but she had done it, albeit after a few too many attempts and after having to pull out the stitches from where she had sewed his little finger together. Having marvelled enough at what she had done, she had left it on her bed while she had gone down to breakfast.  
She returned to find her door ajar and one of the castle’s dogs, a hound she knew fondly as Scruff, chewing away on one of the gloves. Cursing, she went to save the gloves only for Scruff to leap off of her bed and to run off with the blasted thing in his mouth, thinking the whole thing was a game.

 

Guy himself was struggling with his gift. He had never cooked before in his life and after this, his first time, he vowed never to do so again. The head cook threw a few vague hints in his general direction, but the man was no help, never staying still long enough to clarify just what he meant by terms like ‘simmer’ and ‘bring to the boil’. What language was the man even speaking? Guy had never heard terms like that before.  
He had mixed the eggs with the flour and with some milk left on the side. He had thrown in a few apples too- peeled and sliced, he wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to food, but the whole thing just did not look right. He knew he would have to cook it for it to become a tart. He just couldn’t figure out how to get the paste-like mixture from the bowl without breaking a succession of wooden spoons.  
It didn’t help that the kitchen was sweltering. He had already removed most of his leather outerwear and yet still the heat got to him. He went to wipe his forehead again, only to smear yet more flour and goo over his face. This was not how Marian’s gift was supposed to go. It was supposed to be perfect. It was not supposed to be this difficult and- wait, was one of the under cooks laughing at him? He could have sworn the man had looked at him before bursting out laughing…

 

Marian continued to chase Scruff down, shouting for the dog to stop and knocking people aside in her pursuit. The dog with its four legs, boundless energy, and lack of long skirt, was proving to best her, going so far as to stop now and then only to dart out of her grasp just before she could snatch the gloves back.  
Already out of breath, Marian chased the mutt across the castle, down steps and corridors. The hound seemed to have a destination in mind: the kitchens. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, exhausted, maybe there would be a string of sausages or some meat of sorts to distract it with just so she could steal back the gloves.

  

Guy stared, bleary-eyed, at the mess before him, half of a handle still in his hand while the rest of the spoon remained standing upright in the mixture. The cooks made it all seem so easy.  
His attention was caught by a sudden uproar from one end of the kitchen, the end closest to the door. Turning, he could only watch as one of the castle dog’s ran past him, followed by a panting....  
“Marian?”  
“Guy?!”  
Both were shocked to see the other in such a place and in such states of disrepair. Marian’s hair was all over the place and Guy had wiped flour all over his face. Neither were good looks for them.  
“What are you doing here?” They both said at once, before flushing. “I mean-“  
“You first,” Guy said. The runaway hound, no longer being chased, strode up to them, depositing something brown and damp at Guy’s feet. “My gloves?”  
“I can explain,” Marian said, quickly. “I was trying to mend them for you. I saw you had torn them and I knew you needed them and so I thought for your gift-“  
“My gift?” he replied. “But I thought you had Allan?”  
“Allan? No, I thought you did…” They both rolled their eyes and groaned: “Allan…”  
“I will wring his bloody throat,” Guy said, slamming the broken handle back down onto the table.  
“Get in line,” Marian retorted. She looked past Guy to the pure mess he had created on the table. “Is that my gift…?”  
“Yes,” Guy said. It was too late for him to deny it or even to hide the evidence. “It was supposed to be some apple tarts for you.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I know how you like them and I thought you’d like your own and-“ He only dared then to look up at her to see her response, his surprise at it stopping him from speaking any further. She looked shocked, overwhelmed and… touched?  
“You did all this… for me?” she whispered, gesturing not only to the mess on the table, but to the flour all over him, the goo stuck and crusting in his hair.  
“I wanted… I want to make you happy.” And he did mean it. He wouldn’t have troubled himself so for anyone less. “Next time though I’ll buy your sweets instead,” he added, as an afterthought.  
“And I’ll keep your things safe,” Marian replied, and the pair looked down to find Scruff lying at their feet, still happily chewing on Guy’s gloves. “Sorry about that.”  
Guy shrugged, “I needed a new pair anyway.”  
“Probably for the best. I may have sewn up another one of your fingers.”  
Leaving the mess and the irate kitchen staff behind (“What the hell have you done to my kitchen?! And you expect me to clean this up?! Why is there a dog here?”), the pair escaped and made it outside the castle’s main doors, the cool and crisp winter air a treat after the cruel heat of the kitchens.  
“I still need to get you something for Christmas,” Guy said, being the first to break the silence. They both stood at the top of the castle steps, looking out over the guards and yard below.  
“You don’t have to…”  
“You can’t not have something.”  
Marian sighed and looked out towards the gate, up to the battlements and to the sky above.  
“The only thing I really want?” she said. “The only thing I want right now is to get out of the castle. Even just for a day.”  
“You’re allowed to the markets.” Guy was instantly on the defensive; he didn’t want to think of her unhappy in the castle and had hoped that small freedom was enough. He couldn’t bear to think of her unhappy.  
“The markets are good, but I want to go further. I want to ride out again. To the forest and then to Knighton…”  
“Wasn’t Kirkleas enough?” The subject was still a bitter one for him, a thorn in his side: the time she had left the castle and fled to a nunnery rather than turn to him for support. But she was back now and back with him and that was what mattered.  
Marian sighed, “It was just as cloistered as the castle.” At least that was how she imagined the abbey to be. “I want to ride out again.” She paused and turned to him. “You know; I owe you a gift too…”  
“You do?”  
“Why don’t we share a gift? A day out together, you and me. Just you and me,” she added, quickly. A day out without a guard on her back was just what she needed.  
Guy could not believe what he was hearing. A day with only Marian was the best gift anyone could have ever given him. How could he refuse?  
“I’ll talk to the Sheriff,” he said, but he smiled all the same. “I’ll make sure to ask him when he’s in a good mood.”  
Marian smiled back; it was settled then.  
“We could bring a picnic too,” she added. Guy’s smile only widened at that. “Although… I think I’ll prepare it, if you get the horses ready. Deal?”  
“Deal.”

  

Dinner that night was a quiet, subdued affair. The head cook had resigned in a huff and was already halfway to London before anyone had realised. His under cooks had done their best but dinner that night was a poor one and the Sheriff was in a foul mood by the time desserts were handed out.  
“Where are the apple tarts?” he snapped at a serving boy.  
“Sorry, m’lord. We’re out of apples,” the boy replied, only to earn himself a plate thrown at his head.  
Guy and Marian were not so bothered by the lack of decent fare. They sat together and ate together, but they didn’t speak, rather enjoying the companionable silence. Neither of them were excited much for the festivities the next day, but perhaps Christmas that year would not be as unbearable as they had thought it would be.  
Allan meanwhile sat next to Guy, marvelling at his new drinking horn. He had never thought buying for himself would be so difficult. Some things at the market had reminded him too much of his old life, in the forest and with the lads. Other stuff just didn’t seem suitable for his new life as a well-to-do henchman. He had finally settled on a drinking horn, deciding that no matter what or who he became, he always liked his ale to be close at hand.


End file.
